My Harlequin
by HeathLedgerLove
Summary: My first upload. Yet another portrayal of Harleen Quinzel and the Joker's relationship and the beginning of Harley Quinn. Nolanverse. Reviews/comments are greatly appreciated, but please be constructive.
1. Arkham Asylum

Harleen Quinzel was late yet again. It was a new start this time; an internship at Arkham Asylum in Gotham City. It would never have been Harleen's first choice, but here she was, standing outside the front entrance, clicking her heels together with nerves. The doors slid open and she slipped inside, the clicking of her heels down the hall the only sound she made. The asylum was huge; with windows dotting every inch of the sullen brick walls. On the inside however, it could perhaps have been described as slightly nicer. Harleen shook open her unused map, the crisp paper rustling loudly. With a long index finger, she traced the many hallways until she spotted her floor. With a sigh, she hitched her bag up her shoulder and continued down the hall, into an elevator and up the building. When she finally made it to her new office, the relief was marvellous. She flung her bag onto the desk and surveyed her surroundings. The office was small, neat and dull, but in a strangely comforting way. Harleen had shut the door instinctually, but soon there was a knocking sound, and she jumped up to open it.  
"Dr Quinzel?" the woman asked.  
"That's me," Harleen answered, pulling the door open as wide as it could go as an invitation for the woman to enter. The woman smiled.  
"Joan Leland," she said, extending a hand to Harleen. Harleen accepted it with one of her own.  
"I'm sure you were given a tour when you applied, so a new one won't be necessary, but please feel free to ask me any questions that you might have," Joan continued, their hands shaking for an awkwardly long time before releasing each other.  
"Thank you," Harleen accepted, "I will probably take you up on that one."  
Joan laughed. She rubbed her hands together eagerly.  
"You may or may not be excited to hear that you do get to begin today," Joan began, "Although I must warn you, novices generally don't get cases such as these and with good reason. The boss wants to run a couple of trial tests first, just to make sure you're up to it."  
"Is there any reason why I wouldn't be?" Harleen smiled nervously. Her fingers curled around each other as she cupped bother her hands together.  
"This case _has_ proven to be particularly problematic," Joan said, but when she caught the look on Harleen's face she added, "Oh don't worry, he'll be shackled and everything. The boss just thought that maybe a newbie could make him talk, you know, ease the air a little."  
"And what are you, old?" Harleen asked, gesturing at Joan.  
"Me? God no. But no one reckons _I'm _up for the job."  
"But I am?"  
"Do you want it or not? I can have it changed I should think. Give it to someone more experienced who hasn't tried yet-"  
"I never said that," Harleen interrupted quickly. She couldn't let nerves talk her out of it. Imagine the pride if she actually got somewhere with her patient. Which reminded her.  
"Who is my patient?" she asked.  
"The Joker," Joan said, in such a dramatic tone that Harleen had to supress a giggle.  
"You haven't heard of him?" Joan asked, "Dresses like a clown. Complete psychopath."  
"Him?" Harleen frowned. She had heard of him, now that Joan mentioned it. He'd made the front page of the newspaper a couple of times, even though she lived in a neighbouring city to Gotham.  
"Oh yeah," Joan nodded, seemingly enjoying Harleen's realisation.  
"He is chained up right?"  
"Of course honey. Ankles, wrists, the full thing."  
"Torso?" Harleen asked hopefully. Joan just laughed.  
"That depends on his behaviour," she said, "And it's been pretty good lately."  
"Oh dear," Harleen sighed. The tension in her knuckles was building and she ached to bend them back. Unlike some, she adored the sound of her cracked knuckles.  
"You ready?" Joan asked, "Because I'll send down and tell the guards to bring him up to a room."  
"Sure," Harleen said, "I'm ready."


	2. The Joker

Harleen's heels clicked rather loudly in comparison to Joan's silent flats. She inhaled deeply as they turned the corner. The security levels were quite high down there and it made Harleen's skin crawl.  
"This is it," Joan said, and Harleen got the feeling that Joan was rather enjoying herself.  
The door was thick. Joan punched in a code and turned the handle. The Joker had been seated on one side of the steel table, almost as if Harleen were a visitor in a prison. His wrists and ankles were indeed chained.  
"I'll be upstairs if anything goes wrong," Joan said, "And the guards are right here."  
"Thank you," Harleen said dryly. Joan swung the door open and left, her head bent in order to hide the smile plastered on her face. Harleen stared at the two guards.  
"I would appreciate some time alone with my patient," she told them, nodding her head toward the door. They left; expressions grim as they closed the open door. She turned back to the Joker. His hair was died a nasty shade of green, although clearly it hadn't been done in a while, because regrowth was coming through. His face was smeared with white paint. And then there were the scars. She had heard about them. He did nothing to cover them up, instead enhancing the effect by painting them red.  
"Well whuddya know," the Joker purred, "When the old ones fail they send in the new."  
Harleen stepped forward, pulled out her chair and sat opposite him, maintaining eye contact as though he were feral dog.  
"Have you had many doctors Mr Joker?" she asked politely, pulling out his file, paper and a pen.  
"Why don't ya check in there," he leaned forward, "And find out for yourself?"  
Harleen sighed and opened the folder. It didn't contain any photos; instead, it held detailed descriptions of his physical appearance, psychological state of being and current living situation.  
"Your file is quite full," she told him, leafing through the pages with deft fingers.  
"What can I say, I'm… an open book," he replied, tapping his long fingers on the table.  
"Are you?" she asked naively, "Then what can you tell me about yourself."  
The Joker howled with laughter, throwing his head back.  
"You wanna be any more obvious Doc?" he asked, "Because I get that you're new and all, but really, what can you tell me about yourself? What can _you _tell me about yourself Doc?"  
"We're talking about you," Harleen said, taken aback at his reaction. The Joker stopped laughing with evident effort.  
"And so we are," he agreed, folding his hands together and placing them behind his head, "But I gotta ask ya something. If someone said that to you, would you be opening up your inner thoughts?"  
"I wouldn't be here to begin with"  
"But if you were."  
"Then no, I suppose not."  
Harleen waited a few moments, surveying the Joker's reaction to her agreement. He didn't move.  
"What then, Mr Joker, would you like to discuss?"  
"How about ya name Doc?"  
"You may call me Doctor Quinzel, Mr Joker."  
"Quinzel, Quinzel, what about ya first name?"  
"Harleen Quinzel," she said, before inwardly chiding herself for telling him that.  
"Harleen Quinzel. Harleen, Harleen Quinzel. Har…Harley, Harley Quinzel? Harlequin, Harlequin," he laughed, the sound echoing around the room. Harleen was unamused.  
"Yes, yes, I've certainly heard that one before," she said, rolling her eyes as his laughter continued. When his laughs finally subsided, Harleen shook her hair out of her face. She had beautiful hair; all silvery blonde and glossy. Her eyes were blue and her skin was a creamy colour that never changed its tone.  
"Harlequin," the Joker murmured, "Harley…Harley Quinn. Can I call ya Harley?"  
"Oh I suppose," Harley said, clicking her fingers impatiently, "But really Mr Joker, let's get this underway shall we? What do you wish to share with me?"  
"How 'bout this," the Joker began, "You tell me why ya got this job in the first place and I'll tell ya how I got these scars," he indicated to both corners of his mouth.  
Apart from being mildly insulted by his question, Harley was indeed intrigued by the Joker's proposal.  
"Very well Mr Joker," she said calmly, "I suppose that might just work."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Thank you very much to everyone who has read the story. I would really like to thank the reviewer who pointed out a name slip up, I really appreciate it. You're right, Angie was the name of an original character in a story I've been writing for about a year, I'm so used to writing the name!


	3. How I Got These Scars

The Joker leaned back in his seat, looking vaguely interested.  
"Well now Harley," he said, "Ya didn't think I'd be going first did ya?"  
Harley sighed, her fingers rubbing her eyes briefly before returning to her lap.  
"I got this job because I didn't know what I wanted to do, except that I wanted to help people," Harley said, looking the Joker right in the eye as she said so. The Joker said nothing.  
"Mr Joker?" Harley asked, rolling her eyes to the ceiling when he looked at her.  
"Well, well, impatient Harley," the Joker purred, leaning forward so that we weren't so far apart.  
His hands in the cufflinks were turned upwards; his flesh scraping against the metal.  
"I got these scars some years back," he began, leaning forward even further so that our faces were a little too close together for comfort, "When I was…nineteen? Ya see, my father was never really the loving type; preferred a bit of violence to affection. Anyway, there I was, all young, innocent and him all big and menacing."  
The Joker broke off for dramatic effect. Harley was holding her breath, waiting for him to continue.  
"I'd been out late, later than he liked. And so he pulls out this _tiny_ knife. I wasn't too worried, but then he gets closer and closer, shoves the blade in my mouth and _laughs. _I didn't move an inch, but it didn't matter, because in an instant the blade had pierced my skin and ripped upwards. He did the same to the other side; must've known I'd appreciate the symmetry."  
He stopped, having finished his story and waited for a reaction. Harley flexed her fingers, the tension in her knuckles building again. Finally she could bear it no longer and she cracked them, the sound echoing in the small room. The Joker smirked and leaned back in his seat.  
"Not what ya were exxxxxpecting was it, little Harley," he laughed, tapping his feet on the ground while he did so. She shook her head. Honestly, the Joker was doubly as crazy as she had expected, but twice as interesting as well. He had a way of holding one's attention until he no longer wanted it. Harley opened his file again. Flicking through the pages, she found the page that included any personal details about him.  
"Mr Joker, this page is rather empty," she told him, holding the paper up so he could inspect it."  
"So it is," he agreed.  
"There isn't an age, date of birth…not even a proper name," she exclaimed as she looked closer. He inhaled loudly and shifted in his seat as much as he could.  
"Perhaps I could fill it in," she murmured. The Joker pricked up his ears.  
"Not about to start a twenty questions with me are ya Harley?" he asked.  
"Do you have a date of birth you could give me?"  
"Harley, Harley, Harley," the Joker said wistfully, using her newfound nickname with utter certainty, "Ya lack a lot of subtlety, honestly. I think what ya mean is how old am I?"  
Harley flushed unwillingly. It was true; she wasn't incredibly subtle at the best of times. Evidently, tricking the Joker wasn't the way to go, as he always appeared to be one step ahead.  
"Yes, I suppose that is what I meant," she agreed half-heartedly. The Joker cocked his head to the side and surveyed her with his brown eyes. They were rimmed with faded black paint and stood out from the rest of his face. She waited for a couple of moments.  
"Mr Joker?" she probed.  
"Why do ya need a date of birth Harley?" he asked, leaning forward again, "Does it really matter?"  
"Well," Harley said, struggling to find her words, "Well…yes. Yes it does Joker."  
"_Mr _Joker," he corrected, wagging his finger at me disapprovingly, "Or perhaps we can compromise on Mr J."  
Harley bit her lip, scraping back toward her tongue with her teeth.  
"Mr J, then," she said, raising a single finger to rub her temple. He honestly could not have been that old. It _was _hard to tell with all that makeup on. She sighed, returned the page to the file and closed it. The Joker never seemed to lose interest in her; his eyes never wandered around the room, preferring to rest on her. He was dressed rather neatly for such a person. Although his shirt, tie and waistcoat were all quite outlandish colours, they were slimly cut in order to fit him perfectly. He'd rolled his sleeves up. When she looked at his arms, the flesh was still soft and reasonably hairless, which led her to take some years off her initial guess at his age. He tapped his fingers on the table to the best of his ability; the cuffs not allowing much room for movement; something Harley deemed rather wise.  
"I'm afraid, Mr J, that this session has come to a close," Harley said, glancing at her watch for the first time.  
"Has it?" he asked, "Oh dear."  
Harley rose and pressed the button on the wall. It buzzed and the guards burst through the door.  
"Well there's no need for that," Harley said mildly. The guards were forced to calm themselves down. She gave the Joker a final glance.  
"Goodbye Mr Joker," she said, her voice rising up at the end as though she were asking a question.  
"I suppose you'll...uh…be back," he purred, shifting in his seat as the guards came closer. She nodded and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.


	4. Did He Talk To you?

Walking back to her office, Harley felt proud of herself. She had made the Joker talk to her. He hadn't once tried to be violent. It was a successful first session. Joan was waiting in her office.  
"So…how'd it go honey?" she asked, sounding vaguely condescending, but Harley could get past that. Anyway, she'd certainly had a good day.  
"Fine," Harley answered, trying to control the corners of her mouth that kept turning up to smile.  
"Did he talk to you?" Joan asked, pulling a cigarette from behind her ear and flicking out a lighter.  
"Yes," Harley said, wrinkling her nose at Joan. Surely there were rules about that?  
"You want one?" Joan asked, mistaking Harley's distaste for jealousy.  
"Um...no thank you," she answered truthfully. She'd have to air out her office after Joan left.  
"So uh, what'd he say?"  
"Well, a lot and then not much at all," Harley said, replaying the conversation in her mind.  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
"He didn't want to talk about himself. Except for the…um, the scars." Harley made unnecessary hand gestures to her face. Joan raised an eyebrow.  
"What?" Harley asked, crossing her arms across her chest. Joan just smiled and avoided her eye.  
"Well it's better than what anyone else got out of him right?" Harley pressed, uncrossing her arms and leaning back on her desk.  
"I suppose," Joan said, "But how do you know he was telling the truth?"  
That stopped Harley in her tracks.  
"Why say it if it wasn't?"  
"I think he finds it funny," Joan said, biting down on her cigarette so she could pick up his file. She leafed through it before setting it down.  
"I already checked," Harley said, "That file is pretty full, but there isn't anything particularly important. Real name even."  
"How do you know it isn't Joker?"  
"What kind of mother gives birth to a baby and names it Joker?"  
"Well…not yours or mine. But I mean really, he's pretty messed up isn't he? Maybe that's why."  
"I doubt it," Harley frowned. And that was true; she did doubt that any mother would name their child that.  
"And how do you know-"  
"Enough with the how do you know questions," Harley cried, exasperated. Joan raised her hands.  
"Sorry. You said he talked to you."  
"And he did. He just didn't tell me much."  
Or anything at all, it occurred to her. Joan snorted and pulled her cigarette from her mouth, extinguishing it on a metal file in the corner of the room.  
"Thanks for that," Harley sighed. Joan laughed.  
"Lighten up Harleen," she said, almost kindly.  
"It's Harley," Harley told her without thinking. Joan nodded.  
"Harley then," she said, before picking up her cigarette and leaving the room.

As soon as she was gone, Harley turned on the little fan she had in her office. She then sat down at her desk and opened the Joker's file again. It was becoming an addiction. The pages covered boring, uninteresting details about him. The crimes he'd committed, notable people he'd killed. But there was nothing about _him. _  
"Maybe that's the problem," she said out loud. And maybe it was. No one knew anything about the way he'd grown up. They hadn't even bothered to remove the paint on his face. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the desk. He had made it obvious he wasn't interested in discussing himself. But maybe all he needed was someone he trusted. That was, if he actually had the ability to trust anyone. She certainly wouldn't have in his position. She shut his file and placed it in one of her drawers. Harley wasn't sure she was quite cut out for the job. At twenty three, she'd only gained a small degree in university and had nabbed the job because one of her teachers had recommended her. Giving the Joker to someone so inexperienced was an odd call on the asylums' part; but then again, she'd gotten something out of him hadn't she? Harley turned off her fan; convinced that the smell of cigarettes was gone. She checked her watch. Therapists only dealt with one patient at a time, meaning that Harley was free to go home. She left her office, locked the door and went into the elevator. As she left the asylum, she looked back; eyes scanning for her office window. She thought she could see it. Then Harley turned away and pulled her bag further up her shoulder. She was most certainly done for that day.


	5. Write This Down

Harley didn't sleep well that night. It took her hours to drift off and before she knew it, she was awake again. The next morning, she showered and ran out of her apartment; determined to be on time. And she was. As she sat in her office, swinging on her chair and sipping the coffee she'd nabbed on the way to the asylum, she reminded herself to bring notepaper to her next session with the Joker. She wanted to record everything he said, whether she deemed it important or not. As she stowed the little notebook in her pocket, it occurred to her that he might not like that. She sighed and stood up, preparing herself for time with the Joker.

When Harley stepped into the elevator, she came face to face with Joan; smoking another cigarette and flipping carelessly through another magazine.  
"Joan?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at her rather dishevelled appearance.  
"Harleen…Harley!" Joan said, snapping her magazine shut and smiling at Harley, "Nice and early today I see!"  
"Likewise," Harley replied, nodding at Joan. She laughed.  
"I know, I know, I look a little shabby right? Can't help that, stupid alarm clock didn't go off."  
"But you're early."  
"Early compared to you," Joan giggled, "But I tend to get here at six. Makes life easier for me and means I get to leave early."  
"If that's what I have to do to go home early, I'd rather stay here," Harley smiled, tucking some of her silvery hair behind her ears. Joan rolled her eyes and pulled the cigarette from between her teeth, politely puffing smoke out of the corner of her mouth.  
"So," she said, looking Harley up and down a couple of times, "You going back in today?"  
"Of course," Harley was slightly taken aback, "I don't like quitters."  
"Oh," Joan said mockingly, but she lightened the blow with a kind smile, "Can't say I do either."  
Harley nodded. Joan laughed and returned the cigarette to her mouth. The doors opened then, and Harley jumped out, giving Joan a wave goodbye.  
"Goodbye Harley," Joan called, "I'll be in your office."  
"What-"Harley began, but the doors closed and Joan was gone. She sighed for possibly the third time that morning and set off down the corridor, counting the doors in order to find the right one. When she did, she tapped in the carefully remembered code and opened the door. The guards stalked past her; not bothering to greet her. She heard the Joker laugh before she had stepped inside the room. Perhaps it was his laugh that labelled him as psychotic. It was frightening; all disconnected and stilted. She sat down opposite him as she had the day before and pulled out her notebook.  
"Ooh, taking…notes are we Harley?" he hissed.  
"If that's okay with you," she asked.  
"Oh, anything for you sweets," he said, rattling his cuffs noisily. Harley felt a blush creeping up her cheeks, one that she couldn't stop. She'd always blushed easily.  
"How…um, how would you like to start, Mr J?" she asked him, pulling a pen from behind her head and clicking it. The beginnings of a smirk came onto his face and so he bit his lip and raised an eyebrow. Harley tried to maintain eye contact but it was difficult.  
"Look, how about ya write this down," he leaned forward, "I'm gettin' out of here."  
Harley looked up at the cameras that were set into each corner of the room.  
"Those uh, they don't detect sound, my little Harlequin," the Joker purred, catching the direction her eyes had gone in. She glanced at him.  
"Mr J-"  
"Uh-uh," he shook his finger at her. She leaned toward him.  
"Mr J, I'm afraid-"  
She stopped. The Joker was so close that he placed his index finger over her lips to silence her.  
"Now…I'm not really a guy with a plan," he continued, not moving, "But I need you to help me with this one."  
Harley's mouth, which had been slightly open underneath his finger, closed slowly.  
"I'm gonna need you to get rid of those guys," he nodded toward the door, "Tonight."  
Harley leaned away from his touch, settling back in her seat. She wondered why no one was surveying the footage of the meeting, noticing how close he was. But then she shook her head.  
"Mr Joker, I can't let you out," she said, "You're my patient. I'm supposed to help you."  
"And there," he said triumphantly, "Is the point. This would be helping me darling."  
"I can't."  
"Oh, but you can."  
"I'm sorry Mr J," she said, so quietly that even if the Joker was mistaken and the cameras did pick up sound, they wouldn't have heard her. He raised his chin, his eyes searching her for some unknown thing. And then he laughed. And laughed. The sound echoed disturbingly around the room. He bounced in his seat, his manic enthusiasm frightening Harley.  
"Mr J," she said, "I'm trying to help you."  
"Oh, my little Harlequin," he said, creases forming between his brows as he stopped laughing, "I know you are."  
His Harlequin. She liked that. He clapped his hands with unexplained glee and rattled the cuffs around his ankles. She struggled for words, but found none. Eventually, his laughter subsided into silent chuckles and Harley stood up.  
"I suppose that's all then," she said, "We'll finish early."  
"Goodbye," he hissed, as she made her way to the door, "Harley Quinn."

**Author's Note:**

Ok. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time simply to read this story; I love you all. I would just like to say that sometimes the way I write the Joker changes; his slack vocabulary shapes up a bit and that's deliberate. It all depends on how he's feeling and what he's talking about.


	6. I Didn't Fail

Harley hurried into her office and threw her notebook onto the desk. Behind her, Joan stood up from her seat in the corner and quietly closed the door.  
"So…bad session huh?" she asked.  
"Don't you have patients of your own?" Harley asked.  
"Well, yeah, of course. But yours is the most interesting in the place. The most messed up."  
"How wonderful," Harley said dryly, brushing her dress down and turning to face Joan.  
"So why'd you finish early?" Joan asked, not missing a beat.  
"What?"  
"You'd hardly been in there ten minutes Harley."  
"He didn't want to talk," Harley said.  
"But you said he was all chatty yesterday."  
"Well that was yesterday, wasn't it," Harley sniffed, cracking her knuckles aggressively.  
"Okay," Joan said, "You don't want to talk. I get it. Sucks to fail doesn't it."  
"_I didn't fail,"_ Harley cried, childishly stamping her foot on the floor. Joan laughed.  
"Calm down, I was kidding," she said, putting her hands up in surrender.  
"Of course you were," Harley sighed, staring down at her nails with undue interest.  
"Look," Joan said, "My approach is this: don't get attached to your patients. Talk nice, be sympathetic, whatever, but don't care about them. This _is _a mental asylum after all."  
"I'm not attached to him," Harley said, "I spent what, a little under two hours with him yesterday? Ten minutes to day? It's not enough time to grow attached to someone."  
"Well," Joan said, "Just don't get your hopes up about him. He's a hopeless case; completely unchangeable."  
"Couldn't agree more," Harley said. Joan nodded slowly.  
"Okay then," Joan said, "I'd love to stay and chat, but I actually do have a patient to attend to, so I suppose I'll see you later."  
"Good luck," Harley said. Joan smiled and swung the door open and then close. Harley pulled out her little notebook and clicked her pen. She flipped open the cover and looked at the blank sheet.  
_Harlequin_, she wrote, in small, curly handwriting. There was nothing else to say and so the notebook returned to her bag. The downside to having only one patient was that she was left with nothing to do in her afternoons. She packed up her already very tidy office and left the asylum to explore the streets of Gotham. Considering the level of criminal activity in the city, it was filled with nice shops and places for Harley to visit. She settled down in a café and flipped open her phone. There were a couple of missed calls: her friends, her mother, even one from her brother. As she held the phone, it buzzed, as her mother's number appeared on the screen. She hesitated, before answering it.  
"Hello," she said into the phone.  
"Harleen?" her mother asked, "Is that you?"  
Harley sighed.  
"Of course it's me mother," she said, "This is my phone."  
"Well dear, how's the job going?"  
"Um," Harley said, unsure of how to answer that one, "It's going well."  
"Got any patients yet?" her mother's eager voice pressed.  
"Yeah, yeah, just the one."  
"Who is it?" her mother asked, without missing a beat.  
"Oh…no one you'd know mother. Just a, um, just a person who needs a bit of mental support."  
"Well I'm glad to hear it," her mother said, sounding vaguely proud.  
"Look, um, it's been so lovely talking to you, but I've got to go," Harley said, looking at her watch. It was 4:30 and the city would be getting dark soon.  
"Oh well, have a good night dear."  
"Thank you mother, you too," Harley said as she hung up. She paid for her coffee and headed out the door and back home to her apartment. She flung her bag on the couch and took off her clothes for a bath, with the intention of wiping away the lack of success she'd had. But _Harlequin._ His Harlequin. It was all she could think of as she stepped into the tub. And she liked what he'd called her as she'd left. Harley Quinn. For a girl who'd been cursed with the name Harleen Quinzel, it was a pleasant compromise. Harley scrubbed her skin until it went red. The heat of the water made her mirror steam up. She liked that. With her cheek resting against the cool tiles at the back of the bath, she thought about what the Joker had said. _I'm getting out of here. _But how? He was in such high security it was sure to be impossible, even if she had helped him. But what would she have done then? Her only patient would have been gone. Someone would definitely have found out if she'd helped him. Or so she told herself as she lay in bed that night. But little by little, doubt began to creep back into her mind and she felt guilty for not helping him.  
'But he's a criminal,' she told herself. Good people didn't help criminals, however persuasive they were. As she fell asleep that night, the thought of her next session with the Joker was on her mind. She would do better the next day, she promised herself. She'd help him.


	7. Joan

As Harley arrived the next morning, she could already hear the commotion. Joan was standing not far inside the front entrance.  
"Joan!" Harley cried, hurrying as fast as her heeled feet would take her, "What's going on?"  
"The Joker escaped," Joan said, not sounding too disappointed.  
"What? How?"  
"They don't know. Killed the guards outside the door, then he got a couple more that must've gotten in his way," Joan shrugged. Harley raised her eyebrows. So he really hadn't needed her help after all.  
"Don't know what anyone who got in his way was thinking though," Joan continued, as nonchalant as ever, "I mean…he's the Joker. When they first dragged him in here, he had dozens of knives in every pocket on him. Then there's the scars."  
"What about the scars?" Harley said, slightly defensively. The scars shouldn't have been what made him scary.  
"Nothing," Joan said, catching onto her tone and backing down, "But you've got to admit; he's terrifying, scars and all."  
"Whatever," Harley said with a smile. Then it occurred to her.  
"Are they pointing the finger at anyone?" she asked, "Are they running interviews."  
"Nope. Easier and probably more correct just to say that it was all his idea and that he carried it out on his own. Didn't look like he needed any help, from what I saw."  
"I suppose," Harley agreed, "So what do we do?"  
"Stand around. Leave. They won't be opening this place up for a while. He let some of his fellow psychos out as well; trying to build up an army maybe."  
"I don't think he needs one," Harley said, thinking back to the way he'd rattled his cuffs. Joan laughed in agreement. There were a lot of senior workers standing near them, all of them looking highly concerned and some of them frightened.  
"I wonder what he'll do next," Joan hissed in her ear.  
"Don't we all?" Harley replied. But she truly did. But even more so she wondered how he'd managed to escape on his own. And if he could do it on his own, why ask for her help?  
'Maybe,' she thought, 'Maybe he wanted you to come with him. His little Harlequin.'  
She liked that thought. And a part of her deeply regretted not helping him. But then again, he'd escaped on his own.  
"We should have breakfast," Joan said suddenly.  
"Haven't you already had it?"  
"Well yes, but we'll have it again. Come on, I'll show you."

They were huddled up in a packed café not far from the asylum. It had begun to rain and all the customers were shaking water from their hair and clothes. In front of both of them, there was a giant stack of pancakes. Harley ate hers methodically; cutting them up into small pieces. Joan had abandoned her cutlery and was eating her third one rolled up; some maple syrup dripping out the end. Her chin was sticky and hair was threatening to attach itself to her skin. This made Harley laugh.  
"Oh Joan," she giggled, "What are we going to do with you?"  
She couldn't make out Joan's reply; her words were lost amongst her hefty mouthful. Harley finally finished her pancakes and they paid and left the café, walking around under Joan's umbrella until the thunder became so loud they could no longer hear themselves talk. Joan walked Harley back to her apartment, before waving goodbye and continuing on to hers. Harley entered her home with a smile that soon dipped down to a frown.

"Mr J?" she said tentatively as she entered her living room. He was holding her phone; she'd forgotten to take it that morning.  
"Your uh…mother called. Twice," he said, dangling the phone on the tips of his long fingers.  
"Oh," Harley said, without moving. He looked relax on her sofa.  
"I trust they found my departing gifts," he asked calmly.  
"The bodies?"  
"That'd be it."  
"Yeah, they found em alright," she told him, edging into the room and dropping her bag onto a chair.  
"How did you get out without my help?" she blurted out, before she could stop herself.  
"My sweet little Harlequin, ya didn't actually believe I needed ya help did you?" he asked incredulously. She said nothing.  
"No sweets; that was your invitation. I suppose I might've, uh, spelled it out a little clearer."  
"Oh," Harley said. She finally realised that he, having dropped her phone, was calmly playing with a little knife. She gulped. He flicked it open and closed, before finally snapping it shut and standing abruptly. He came toward her and only stopped when they were a few inches apart.  
"Did you like the bodies I left?" he asked softly. She shook her head and took a few steps back. He laughed manically.  
"But why not?" he asked, cupping his hands over both of her cheeks and gently raising her face to look at his much higher one.  
"Because…because," she struggled for words, "They were bodies! They were dead."  
"There's nothing wrong with being dead Harley," she purred. She swallowed. He laughed again and dropped his hands.  
"I think I'll be seeing you sssssoon," he hissed, passing her on his way to the door. She stood frozen, but as she heard the door click shut, she finally snapped and ran to and out the door, after him.


End file.
